


To Use or Be Used

by magickbeing



Series: Used [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Against a Wall, Angst, Derek's POV, Dilaudid, First Kiss, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Moreid, Pining!Spencer, Protective!Derek, Rutting, Smut, Spencer's POV, TW: Mentions of Addiction, TW: Mentions of Drug Use, alternating pov, fantasies, jerking off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2307428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickbeing/pseuds/magickbeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Morgan was running out of ideas. Spencer Reid was running out of excuses.</p><p>It was on one particularly cool, autumn evening, that the two collided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Use

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not be addicted...
> 
> (See end for EDITED author's notes...)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Morgan was running out of ideas, an idea itself that did not settle well. Spencer Reid was distant. He was closed off, talking little—statistics were few and far between, even on a case—and he rarely smiled. Derek decided, quite abruptly, enough was enough. 
> 
> He was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him.
> 
> (Derek's POV.)

Derek Morgan was running out of ideas, an idea itself that did not settle well.

 

He had tried everything. He had tried light, teasing remarks and a ruffle of hair that typically caused the other man to press his lips against a smile and, sometimes, bat his hands away—he had tried a series of careful, thought out steps—of gentle questions and pleading eyes, shoulder bumping into his in a completely well-natured, good-humored sort of way. But the resident genius and boy wonder, Spencer Reid, had countered each move with one of his own; he had stiffened under Derek's touch, eyes lifeless as they stared resolutely at the wooden table in front of him, had avoided each of his questions with careful silence or clipped excuses, had avoided his eyes and leaned away from the jolt of his shoulder against his.

 

Spencer was distant. He was closed off, talking little—statistics were few and far between, even on a case—and he rarely smiled. He seemed... _forlorn,_ for lack of a better word. Bitter, almost, and Derek's curiosity and concern came to their peak on one particularly cool, autumn evening—a Friday—as Spencer had, yet again, refused to join the team in their attempts of relaxation and commodore. When asked, Spencer had cast Derek a strangely wistful look that was quickly followed by a proverbial wall, his expression melting into one of indifference, eyes averting as he simply bid him goodnight.

 

It was two hours and four beers later that Derek decided, quite abruptly, enough was enough.

 

He was going to get to the bottom of this if it _killed_ him.

 

His eyes were determined, jaw set, as he found himself standing in front of Spencer's door, lifting his hand to knock against dark wood three times. There was a shuffle of movement, the audible approach of hesitant footsteps, and Derek pressed his lips into a thin line, a muscle along his jaw twitching.

 

“Open up, Reid,” Derek called, knowing that Spencer was likely peering out at him then, staring at him through the peep hole as he considered not answering. He stared resolutely at the peep hole, challenging his gaze with a steadfast one of his own. “Don't make me break down your door, pretty boy.”

 

Three seconds passed and then there was the scrape of metal against wood as the deadbolt was unhooked, quickly followed by metal against metal as the door handle itself was unlocked. The door was pulled open, Spencer looking disheveled as he sandwiched himself between the door itself and its frame, not quite meeting Derek's eyes as he greeted him with a charismatic: “What do you want?”

 

His voice was flat.

 

Derek's eyes raked over Spencer's person—he was wearing a simple, white undershirt and his corduroys from work, faded gray, topped off by mismatched socks and a black belt. His eyes flicked up and to Spencer's. The other man was looking just above Derek's right ear, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Derek rolled his jaw, lips pinching against a frown.

 

“We need to talk,” he replied evenly, matching Spencer's flat tone with one of his own.

 

Spencer made a bit of a face, nose scrunching, and for a single instant—a single _fucking_ instant—he resembled more of the doctor Derek had come to know and love.

 

“And this can't wait until Monday?” he asked, trying to keep his expression blank then—Derek could see the strain of the action in his eyes, could see it in the slight twitch of his lips and delayed flutter of his eyelids.

 

Derek scoffed, mouth screwing up and to the right.

 

“So you can avoid me again?” he countered. “Nice try, kid.”

 

Spencer looked at him, then. _Finally._ He fixed him with a searching look, eyes running across the length of his features, and Derek's mouth smoothed, eyebrows raising expectantly. Spencer shook his head, the door still hugged close to his body.

 

“You're drunk, Morgan,” he surmised, lips turning into a slight frown. “Go home.”

 

He shifted and Derek saw the movement for what it was—he was going to close the door, going to lock himself away in his flat and likely spend the weekend thinking up another laundry list of excuses. Derek compensated for Spencer's movement, jolting forward to slide his shoe between the door and its frame, and pressed the flat of his palm against wood, elbow bent slightly—not locked, no—forearm tense as he kept the door wedged open. Spencer visibly startled at the action, quick and languid, and Derek felt a surge of hope. He had managed to catch Spencer off guard—they were on more even ground than they had been in weeks and that—that _had_ to be a start.

 

“I'm not going home, Reid. Not until we talk.” He gave him a pointed look, eyes locked on his. “I'll stay here all night if I need to,” he continued, conviction seeping through each syllable, each word, enunciated by a slight jerk of his head, a half-nod. “You know I will, kid—come on, just bite the bullet,” he encouraged, voice softening marginally. Spencer's eyes were on his, searching, and he swore he could hear his heart as he waited, determination morphing into concern, his worry lining his features for the other man to see. Spencer swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing, pulling the shadows down his throat, and then he was shifting, shoulders slumping in slight defeat. He let go of the door and stepped back, wrapping his arms around his own abdomen as he moved.

 

Derek pressed against the door and stepped forward, inviting himself inside.

 

Spencer took another step back, as if in answer to Derek's approach, and Derek pressed his lips against another frown, shutting the door behind himself. His eyes were still on Spencer and he could see the shift of his weight, the way Spencer nearly squirmed under his gaze.

 

“So. What is it?” Spencer managed, cutting right to the chase, his voice no longer flat—instead strangely strained.

 

Derek blew out a sharp breath through parted lips, chocolate colored eyes searching hazel.

 

“You tell me,” he replied evenly, eyebrows raising. “I know something's up, kid. Something's been bothering you—the whole team has noticed. We— _I—_ just want to help.”

 

He had expected the idea to bother him, to make him more uncomfortable—the idea that the whole team had noticed, that his coworkers—his friends—his _family—_ were all worried about him. Instead, Spencer's expression seemed to harden, a muscle twitching along his jaw, fingers tugging at the cotton of his own shirt, gripping firmly onto his own sides.

 

“I don't need your help,” Spencer muttered, voice uneven—he was trying to make it flat again—Derek could tell—but failing miserably. “Nothing's wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head, almost snorting in disbelief.

 

“Don't lie to me,” he said, a half-command, half-request, his eyes softer than his tone. He wanted, desperately, for Spencer to let him in. He wanted his best friend back—he wanted to see him light up with passion when someone made some offhand remark about the history of doll collecting, perhaps, or why clowns were frequently feared—he wanted to see that smile, bright and simultaneously bashful—wanted to see him flush and hear him return his teasing remarks with ones of his own. He wanted to listen to him rant about the reasons trees were decorated at Christmas or the origin of curtains—he wanted to gripe and complain as Spencer coaxed him into watching two—maybe even three—of The Star War films back to back, secretly enjoying the companionable silence that blanketed them, away from the stresses of psychopaths and fetishists. He wanted Spencer to be okay. “Have you been having head-aches again?”

 

“No,” he answered quickly. Spencer's expression didn't change, eyes hard as he repeated two words, syllables forced and enunciated with a sharp roll of lips: “Nothing's—wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head again, the movement smaller then, miniscule.

 

He didn't want to—knew how Spencer would react—and yet he had tried every other approach. Maybe it was best to be blunt, then. Maybe he could catch him off guard again.

 

“Are you using?” he asked abruptly, eyes held steadfast on Spencer's.

 

It was Spencer's turn to scoff, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

 

“Am I using?” he repeated, tone seemingly taken-aback—incredulous.

 

Derek frowned, knowledge of his past trainings running through his head, his thoughts taking on—strangely enough—the other man's voice. He had answered his question not only with a question but with a repetition of his own. He was faking surprise—a simple _what?_ would have been more believable—trying to bide time to think of an appropriate answer—a lie. Spencer, of course, realized his mistake. Derek could see it plainly in the micro-twitches of his features, the way his forehead twitched and the line of his lips tightened.

 

“You heard me,” Derek replied.

 

Spencer swallowed, shaking his head, careful to keep his eyes on his.

 

“You're drunk,” he repeated, trying an old tactic. “Go home.”

 

It worked as well that time as it had the first.

 

“Avoidance tactics won't work on me, Reid,” Derek muttered, a bit of an edge to his voice. He wanted to help him—why couldn't he see that? He just wanted to help him. He wouldn't judge him—really—he wouldn't. At the end of the day, Derek really—genuinely—just wanted his friend to be okay. Before Spencer could reply, Derek was stepping forward, the question repeating itself, hanging in the air with forced pauses and stressed pronunciation, as if saying each word individually, without connection to the next, would somehow coax an answer from the brunette. “Are—you—using?”

 

He could see the way Spencer tensed at his approach and then he was taking a half-step back, shuffling a bit to the side, and Derek pressed on, voice softening. “Come on, man—talk to me. Let me help you—I know there are late night NA meetings—maybe we could find you an emergency sponsor—“

 

“No,” Spencer interrupted, taking another step away from Derek, making their perceived distance physical.

 

Derek's eyebrows furrowed at their center, tilting downward, and he searched Spencer's face.

 

“Please, Reid—let me help you.” Maybe if he repeated those four words enough, they would finally manage to worm their way into that big brain of his. Maybe Spencer would finally realize that there was no shame in letting Derek do as asked—no shame in letting him in. “What's wrong?”

 

“ _Nothing's_ wrong,” he repeated, arms dropping to his sides, palms turned toward Derek, fingers flexed out. The body language was open—deliberately so—and Derek saw the act for what it was. “I'm _not_ using and _nothing's_ wrong—“ certainly it was obvious Derek was going to object, that he was going to throw out some observation or another and so Spencer, sighing, added, “—I just... want space. Okay?” His voice was softer then and there was something in his eyes, something pleading that Derek recognized. He was drowning and refused to take the life preserve. Derek rolled his jaw.

 

“I'm sorry, Reid,” he breathed—and he meant it—not necessarily for what he was about to say—but—in general. He was sorry that Spencer was hurting, sorry that this—what ever it was—was something he felt he needed to keep bottled up—something he needed to deal with himself. “But I can't. I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy... you haven't been eating. You look like Hell—when was the last time you managed more than an hour's sleep?—you're withdrawn—showing lack of interest in hobbies—in everything, honestly—and you're distracted, fidgety and tense. I _can't_ let this go.”

 

Within a mere second, Spencer's posture was tight again, closed off, his hands turning back and curling into half-fists at his sides, chin lifting fractionally, as if challenging the older man.

 

“Too bad,” Spencer snapped. “Now _go home._ ”

 

Before Derek could reply—could re-evaluate the conversation and try another approach—Spencer was turning away, stalking away from him and toward his kitchen. Anger and desperation cut through him. He had meant what he said before. He wasn't going to leave until they talked— _really_ talked. He would stay there all night if he had to—make Spencer's life difficult in what ever way he could manage. He _would_ get to the bottom of this—even if it killed him.

 

It happened quickly, as those things were wont to do—he was reacting completely on instinct then, on the quick, adrenaline-like desperation that bled into his veins. He grabbed Spencer's wrist, tugging sharply to spin him around and then he was stepping forward, backing him up—two steps—into the nearby wall. Spencer startled, jerking his wrist from his grip, but it was too late—he was pinned against the wall, Derek's arms moving to either side of him, palms flat against the plaster, body nearly covering his.

 

“Are—you—using?” he repeated, voice nearly a low growl, face inches away from Spencer's.

 

Spencer's hands moved to his chest and he tried to push him away—but Derek's stature was considerably larger, considerably more imposing, and considerably stronger, especially then with his footing placed _just_ so and weight shifted into his knees. Spencer retracted, as if burned, and tried to worm his way out from under Derek's right arm. Derek pressed in closer, pinning his body more forcibly between the wall and his own.

 

“Don't make me ask again, kid,” Derek warned, eyes burning into his, despite the way Spencer's own eyes were unfocused, glossed over and flickering, searching for an out. He could feel Spencer's breath against his face, sharp and stuttering, and Spencer tried to shift against him, tried to shrug him off and duck away—it was then that he felt it. There, against his upper thigh, was Spencer's clothed arousal, his erection pressing through his pants and jerking against his body.

 

 _That_ was new.

 

Spencer drew in a sharp breath at the contact, eyes finally meeting his, and the words poured from his mouth, stuttering and panicked, eyes widening. “S-sorry—I—err, sorry—p-please just—“ he quickly averted his gaze, eyebrows pinched and lips twisted into a grimace—he almost looked like he was about to _cry—_ and Derek's eyes, in turn, narrowed, searching. There was a dusting of color along the high-spots of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes, while averted—unfocused again—were darker than usual—and Derek sucked in a greedy breath of his own as things started to click into place.

 

Spencer rolled his lips together, squirming again, trying to press himself further back and against the wall, to put as much distance between himself and Derek as he could, another apology on his lips—Derek cut it off by compensating for the movement, by leaning in closer, body pressing firmly against his again. Spencer's breath hitched, eyes reeling back and to his. Derek could almost taste the breath against his face then, loud and stuttering, and he kept his eyes on Spencer's, the corner of his mouth twitching. He simply stared at the other man for a long moment before shifting, dipping his head in and down, lips brushing against the juncture of Spencer's jaw and cheek as he said—breathed, rather—“I'm not through with you yet, pretty boy.”

 

He kept Spencer cowered against the wall by pinning his body against his; he let one of his hands fall, move down to settle against a narrow hip. There was an answering hitch of breath and he let his own breath tickle against pale skin. Spencer almost _whimpered_ and if that wasn't the most delicious sound Derek had heard yet, he didn't know what was.

 

He could feel heat rushing into his stomach, feel his own cock throb to life, slowly filling as arousal drizzled into his veins. He licked his lips, tongue barely brushing against the edge of Spencer's jaw and already he could feel the arousal vibrating through the smaller man, his body nearly trembling against his.

 

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low, rougher than usual—even to his own ears. He let his fingers tug on Spencer's shirt, slip it up so that his fingertips could brush against half-exposed skin. There was no reply—only another breath, loud and stuttering, and Derek pressed his hips more firmly against Spencer's.

 

Spencer exhaled sharply, the word chasing the breath and hooking on its end: “Yes.”

 

 _That_ was the green light Derek needed. He drew his face closer to Spencer's skin and began to trail his lips down, past the edge of his jaw and against a fluttering pulse-point, his touch becoming more firm against his hip, gripping at jutting bone to anchor himself to the other man. Spencer arched into the touch, lifted his body from the wall and tried to push up and into his hips. Already Spencer was deliciously responsive. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched in amusement and he kissed Spencer's throat, lips parted slightly to ghost hot breath over waiting skin.

 

“Morgan—“ Spencer managed, voice choked, his name tearing itself from his mouth in a low whine.

 

Derek nearly smiled. He pressed another kiss to his skin, further down, and let his grip loosen, let his fingertips trail along the waist-band of his pants. He could feel each rise and fall of Spencer's chest, his breathing already uneven and everything felt more than a bit surreal—everything seemed warm and bright—wonderful in its own way—but glossed over with adrenaline and anticipation, colored with desire. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, able to smell the faint after-scent of Spencer's soap, spicy and clean—almost citrusy.

 

“Yes?” he asked, letting his eyelashes brush against the curve of Spencer's jaw as he blinked, lips still against his skin, the tip of his nose tickling his throat. Spencer's hands jerked up, touch hesitant and shy, one hand settling against his bicep, the other against his clothed rib-cage, and Derek could feel the shiver that wracked his body in response.

 

“Please—“ he stopped, squirming against him, pressing his body up and into his. “Please—“

 

Derek chuckled, amused, the noise throaty.

 

“Oh, pretty boy, I'm sure you can do better than _that._ ”

 

A frustrated noise caught in the back of Spencer's throat, the hand against Derek's arm shifting, tracing tentatively against dark shin, the fingers of his other hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt and tugging him closer. A part of Derek was surprised that his body managed to jolt forward—if only a breath—to press more firmly against Spencer's, the friction of their hips eliciting a sharp breath of his own. He smiled against his throat and pressed several hot, open mouthed kisses to his skin, drawing another choked noise from his counterpart—an almost whimper. Derek dragged the hand against his waist further down, slipping it between their bodies, over the grated lines of corduroy, touch flitting over worn fabric, fingertips breaths away from his clothed arousal. He traced the tendon on the left side of Spencer's throat with his tongue. Spencer's back arched and he let his head fall back and against the wall so that Derek had better access: Derek smiled.

 

“That's better,” he muttered, turning his hand so that he could palm at Spencer's considerable erection. The noise of agreement Spencer had been trying to make quickly turned into more of a grunt than anything else; Derek ran his hand along the length of Spencer's erection, lifting his face to look at his counterpart, momentarily entranced by his expression—his eyes were nearly closed, half-lidded and focused on him, darker than Derek could ever remember seeing them, and his lips were parted, stuttering breaths falling into their shared air. Spencer was slowly coming apart at the seams, frayed at the edges, and Derek thought he looked absolutely gorgeous, absently noticing a dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose that he had never really noticed.

 

He let his fingers grip along Spencer's width, slide up and then down, and then Spencer was biting on his bottom lip and _God_ that was sexy.

 

Abruptly, the hand against his bicep shifted, retreated, skipped up to grip the back of his neck, thin fingers pressing hard against his skin; Spencer drew him forward, simultaneously leaning in himself and Derek's eyes slipped shut a moment after his lips crashed against his. The kiss wasn't anything like Derek had imagined it would be—it wasn't shy and tentative. It wasn't a simple press of lips that ended with more questions than answers. No—instead, his lips were firm and eager, soft and dry and maybe a little bit chapped, slotting easily against his to draw his bottom lip into his mouth and lick and bite. It was hard and passionate—deep and full of a need Derek felt too foregone to completely understand right then. And so he didn't try to. Instead, he focused on kissing him back, focused on opening his mouth against his and letting their tongues crash together—focused on letting himself taste Spencer—warm and sweet with an aftertaste of coffee and caramel. His hand, which had since stilled against Spencer's erection, mind too focused on the things he was doing with his mouth—he was a far better kisser than Derek had expected—maybe there was something to be said for book-learning—moved back up to grip his hip, a movement that spurred Spencer's own. The other man jerked his hips up and into Derek and the moan that fell into the kiss was pure sex. He pressed hard against Spencer, needing him to know what he was doing to him—needing him to know that this—what ever this was—wasn't one sided. No. Far from it.

 

Dropping his hand from the wall and onto Spencer's other hip, Derek braced himself fully against the other man, letting out a low groan of his own as Spencer rutted his hips into his again, the friction sending a roller-coaster of shivers down his spine. Spencer was sucking gently on his tongue and— _where had he learned to do that?_ —not that Derek was complaining—his nails were digging into the nape of his neck, his other hand gripping his shirt tightly, holding him in place. Derek rolled his hips deliberately against his, eliciting another moan. He breathed it in, let it nestle in his lungs and burn itself into his cortex. He bit at Spencer's bottom lip, drew it into his mouth and _sucked,_ smoothing the mark with his tongue.

 

Their hips worked on finding a steady pace, fast, half-thought jerks turning into quick, deliberate rolls forward and up. The kiss, which had lasted long enough to leave them both breathless, came to its end, Spencer's forehead pressing against his, both of their eyes opening to peer hungrily into the other's.

 

“Please,” Spencer repeated. Derek was nearly cross-eyed in their close proximity and could feel the word dance across his skin. He pushed his hips up and into Spencer's again, a smile touching his lips.

 

“Please what?” he asked, eyes dark. His voice was rougher than usual, husky, and Spencer's answering exhale skipped before settling.

 

“Please—“ Spencer tried again, licking his lips, “touch me.”

 

Derek chuckled, smile widening, and then his hands were shifting against Spencer's waistband and down to his belt.

 

“You only needed to ask,” he muttered as he lifted his hips, his own cock throbbing at the lack of contact, and began working on unbuckling Spencer's belt, sliding the leather end through its clasp without tearing his eyes away from Spencer's. Spencer wanted this— _him—_ and it was written across every plane of his face, etched in every feature, and Derek knew that if he were to look in a mirror his own expression would closely resemble his. The fingers against the nape of his neck had shifted, Spencer's touch becoming more gentle as he stroked available skin. Each movement, each touch, caused the heat in his stomach to intensify, the knot of arousal tightening and throbbing, spreading out so that his skin practically _hummed_ with its presence.

 

He managed to unbutton and unzip Spencer's corduroys, hands shifting so that he could tug on restricting fabric. Spencer obediently lifted his hips, letting his pants slip down over narrow hips and past his butt, pooling mid-thigh. He could feel the heat radiating from Spencer's erection, thin briefs a poor insulator, and then his lips were on his again.

 

Spencer returned the kiss with fervor, nipping and sucking on his lips as Derek worked on freeing him from his briefs, calloused fingers brushing against bare skin and eliciting a sort of knee-jerk reaction; Spencer's head fell back to hit the wall as he let out a sharp gasp, lips tearing from his, and the smile that touched Derek's features was darker than usual, twisted and smoldering. Spencer's eyes were still on his as he raised his right hand, his left settling against a bare, jutting hip, and licked a stripe across his palm. Spencer squirmed expectantly, his chest heaving, and then Derek was wrapping his fingers around his cock.

 

Spencer's hips jolted up and into his touch, a moan tearing itself from his lips, and Derek absently wondered how many people had been privy to such a sight. His eyes were dark, a brown-black, color drained, and his skin was pleasantly flushed, freckles especially apparent then. His lips were pink and swollen, parted so that another noise could fall from his tongue, and there was a thin veil of sweat across his face and throat, pooling in the divots of his collarbone. He was absolutely _gorgeous_ and Derek found he rather liked making Spencer come apart beneath him. Derek watched as he squeezed his eyes shut as he gave his cock an experimental twist and tug, able to feel his veins throbbing with arousal beneath his touch. There was another low moan and who knew the boy wonder would be so deliciously vocal?

 

The hand that had been wringing his shirt abruptly moved as Spencer opened his eyes. Spencer released the fabric only to bring his hand down to the hem of his tee and give it a sharp tug up to reveal his navel.

 

“Off—“ he muttered, lifting his head. “Please—take it off.”

 

Derek rather liked hearing Spencer speak like this, words almost stuttering and breathless.

 

He did as requested—commanded, rather—another jolt of heat rushing through him, cutting through him like lightning as he retracted, moving to pull his own shirt from his shoulders and head. Spencer's hands were on bare skin within an instant, pulling him close, his bare cock rutting into Derek's jeans. Derek chuckled again. _Someone_ was impatient.

 

“Not so fast, kid,” Derek muttered, his own hands moving to tug at Spencer's shirt. Spencer nearly _whined_ but quickly complied, lifting his arms obediently over his head so that Derek could strip him of restricting fabric and dispose of it to the floor carelessly. Spencer's hands slid around to map out the planes of his back, fingertips tracing over each vertebrae as he pulled Derek close to him again, their abdomens touching and sending an obvious jolt of pleasure through the both of them. Derek could see the arousal—the need—written across Spencer's face. There was something else, too. There was something different about the way Spencer was looking at him—something that was warm and familiar—but he was too caught up in the moment to analyze it right then, too caught up in the way Spencer's hands slid over his heated skin, the way his touch elicited another jerk of his hips and sent contradicting shivers and electricity through his body.

 

He lifted his hand to re-coat his palm, licking his own skin, able to taste the remnants of Spencer's precome. Hand sliding between their bodies, Derek found Spencer's cock, easily wrapping his fingers around it and palming at its shaft. Spencer let out a soft, strangled moan, one he had undoubtedly been trying to swallow down, and then his lips were on Derek's throat.

 

Derek's head rolled back automatically, tilting to give Spencer better access. He kissed and licked at his skin, causing Derek's eyes to flutter shut and the knot of arousal in his stomach to jump up and punch his lungs. He gave Spencer's cock several slow, twisting jerks, teasing him until he was bucking into his touch, silently demanding more, his mouth latched against Derek's collarbone, barely stifling his moans.

 

His hand quickened on its own accord and he tightened his grip, letting Spencer fuck his fist.

 

Spencer's lips tore themselves from his skin, his forehead pressed against the curve of his shoulder—his breathing came out in stuttering pants, the occasional moan underlying the noise. His hair tickled Derek's face, catching on faint stubble, and he turned his face toward his to press a kiss to Spencer's temple. The moan that followed seemed louder than those before it and then Spencer was lifting his face, catching his lips with his. He kissed him—hard--and Derek found himself returning the silent fervor, nipping at Spencer's bottom lip as his own eyes slipped shut. Spencer's tongue searched his mouth and Derek swirled his own tongue around his, inviting him inside—he swallowed down the moan that followed, keeping it close to his heart—and then Spencer was pulling away to look at him, mouth wet.

 

“Can I—nnfhhh—“ what ever question he was going to ask was interrupted by another moan, almost keening in nature, as Derek twisted his hand and palmed at the tip of his head. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched into a slight smirk and he repeated the action; Spencer's hips jerked forward in reply and his partner swallowed hard, face almost a grimace as he tried to focus: “Can I—touch you?” he managed finally, his hands sliding down his back to settle on his hips.

 

Derek licked his lips, wanting nothing more than to see Spencer's slender fingers wrapped around his girth—his arousal twitched and throbbed at the image but he managed to push against it, shaking his head and offering Spencer a smile, soft and twisted, colored by arousal.

 

“I want to focus on _you,_ pretty boy,” he practically purred, leaning in to press their foreheads together. He gave his cock a deliberate twist and pull, squeezing a bit more firmly, an action that elicited another choked sort of moan from his counterpart. He could see Spencer searching his eyes, something akin to disappointment flashing across his expression. Derek gave his cock another careful twist and added, voice husky, “I want you to come apart for me—make you focus on nothing more than my hand—shut that big brain of yours down. Think I can do that, pretty boy?”

 

The disappointment was gone, then, and Spencer was making a noise in the back of his throat that Derek assumed was an attempt at agreement. Realizing that it wasn't really a word, Spencer settled for nodding, his cock throbbing under Derek's touch.

 

He was getting close—Derek could see the tension in his expression, feel it in his willing body.

 

Derek licked his lips, searching Spencer's eyes, and slowed the movements of his hand.

 

It was then or never.

 

“Are you using?”

 

Spencer looked at him, brow furrowing, clearly struggling to process the words. The conversation was clearly out of place and Derek hated the way his expression almost darkened at its approach—but Spencer didn't pull away, didn't push at him or tell him to stop. Instead, he managed an answer: “No—no—“ the words were hesitant—stuttering. Derek continued to stroke his cock, more lightly then, touch more teasing than before. Spencer's hips jerked forward, an invitation for him to continue, and something akin to relief wormed its way into his chest. Derek swallowed, forcing himself to focus, his eyes still on Spencer's.

 

“So if I—“ Derek quickened his pace a bit more, letting his hand squeeze and pull harder, touch becoming more firm, “searched this apartment—you'd be clean?” He paused, leaning in to press his lips briefly against Spencer's. The kiss was nothing more than a lingering sort of tease, his tongue brushing across the seams of his mouth before he pulled away, coaxing, “Come on, pretty boy—I promise I'll reward your honesty.”

 

Spencer tried to chase the kiss with his own lips but Derek remained firm, leaning just out of reach; the hands against his back skirted up, fingernails practically digging into his skin, and Derek swallowed down a moan of his own, his cock throbbing in his pants.

 

“Come on,” he repeated, shaking his head and continuing to pull at Spencer's cock. Spencer whimpered, leaning back so that his head was resting against the wall again but his touch didn't let up.

 

“No—I—“ there was a low moan, “I haven't been—nnfhhh—“ and then another as Derek repeated an earlier gesture, palming at the head of his cock before letting his fingers slide down and twist, “but—m'air conditioner... past the filter—two bottles—been there for—ahh,” two—two months—six days—twenty seven minutes and—“

 

“Then what's been bothering you?” Derek interrupted, sensing the truth behind his answer. He didn't think Spencer had it in him to lie again—not right then—his orgasm just past his reach. And he _really_ didn't need to know the time down to the second. Not then. He had much more important things to focus on himself, honestly.

 

He let the pace of his hand quicken and steady out, a glimpse of Spencer's promised reward.

 

His answer came in a gasp: “You.”

 

The movement of his arm stopped and stuttered, restarting when Spencer gave a deliberate jerk of his hips, fucking his fist with the movement and spurring Derek back into action, brow furrowed. “Me?”

 

“You—“ Spencer confirmed, his eyes on his, suddenly wide and searching. Derek pressed his lips into a thin line, rolling them against a frown. Had he done something to upset Spencer without realizing it? If he had, it was rather unlike Spencer to keep it bottled up—he was usually rather good at calling him on his shit. Granted, he wasn't always the _quickest_ or most _eager_ to do so, but to keep it—what ever it was—bottled up for this long—Spencer was talking again— _begging_ —drawing Derek from his thoughts with several disjointed words: “—please—Morgan— _Derek—_ need this—please—don't... don't stop—not yet—“

 

Derek's hand had slowed without his realizing it and at the sound of Spencer's voice he quickly worked on coaxing Spencer back to that edge. He would analyze Spencer's answer later. Right then he was pretty sure he had said something about a reward. And so he leaned in, letting his lips trail over the edge of his jaw before ghosting up and finding his ear. He ghosted his breath over sensitive flesh, licking at the bottom of his earlobe before gently taking it into his mouth, nipping and licking before releasing it with a chuckle. “Mmm, pretty boy—I have no plans of stopping—“ he shifted to look at Spencer again, to catch his eyes with his, “—fuck. You're so gorgeous like this.”

 

Spencer's eyes fluttered closed, several lines appearing across his forehead. “Ahh—please—“

 

“Close?”

 

Spencer managed to nod, eyes opening to peer into his, half-lidded and dark.

 

The corner of Derek's mouth twitched, his own eyes almost smoldering, the knot of arousal in his stomach tightening. “Not quite yet—“

 

Spencer whimpered, his body jerking forward, cock throbbing pitifully in his hand. He could feel Spencer nearing that edge, teetering firmly on the edge of that abyss, and as Spencer whimpered again, nails scratching down Derek's back, Derek coaxed: “There we go—come on, pretty boy. Come on, Reid—let go. Come for me—come on, Spencer—“

 

Spencer came with a shout, body jerking unceremoniously beneath his, warmth coating Derek's hand. His body trembled against the wall, jerking repeatedly against him as his hips stuttered—Derek continued to stroke his cock, milking the remnants of his orgasm from him until Spencer was whimpering again, the touch to his back lifting, lightening in pressure as he tried to squirm away from his touch.

 

Derek chuckled and slowed his movements, shivering as the come against his chest began to cool; he leaned in and kissed Spencer. The kiss was meant to be gentle, comforting, but Spencer seemed to have other ideas—even then. He was licking and nipping at Derek's bottom lip before delving his tongue into his mouth, letting it run along the edge of his teeth and then swirl against his. Derek easily countered his passion with a fervor of his own, his cock leaking against his underwear.

 

But then Spencer was pulling away, words spilling from his lips, soft and surprisingly flat, considering. “I should... I should clean up.”

 

Derek startled, a crease forming between his eyebrows; Spencer shifted, drawing himself away from him, and pressed his hands against his chest to guide him back. Derek stepped back without further prompting, confusion seeping into his veins, and then Spencer was hurrying to pull up his trousers, remnants of his orgasm smeared across his own skin which glistened in the artificial lighting. Spencer wouldn't meet his eyes as he fled, practically _scurrying_ off and towards the bathroom.

 

The door was too loud as it shut.

 

Derek stared at it blankly for a moment before turning, letting his head rest against the wall, cold and grounding. He let his eyes close. He knew he should pursue Spencer, should see what was bothering him— _now,_ his mind chided, but the heat was still there and _God—_ he was so aroused—his cock throbbed painfully in his pants—he unbuckled his jeans, snaking a hand in to fist at his own erection. He thought of Spencer, eyes blown open with want—thought of how he had bucked up and into him—thought of him laying down, legs spread—lips stretched tight around his cock—bent over—and then Derek was biting down—hard—on his bottom lip as he tried to ride out his own orgasm in near-silence, breathing coming out in short, hard pants as he spurted out and onto his own hand, come mixing with Spencer's.

 

 

*********

 

 

Derek was sitting on the couch, still shirtless but clean, beer in hand, when Spencer emerged from the bathroom, a plush, terry-cloth towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was hanging in dark, wet tendrils around his face, sticking to his skin, and even from there, Derek thought he could see beads of water tracing the lines of his thin but muscular abdomen. He stopped in the threshold, eyes instantly drawn to the other man, and Derek frowned at how his body straightened, at how he tensed and gripped his towel a little bit closer. He searched Spencer's eyes, raising both eyebrows and, simultaneously, his beer, tilting its neck toward him in offering.

 

Spencer managed to shake his head.

 

Derek shrugged, lifting the bottle to his own lips and taking a long pull of the bitter liquid.

 

Spencer took two hesitant steps forward. Derek could practically _hear_ the whirl of his gears, mind racing, and he could see the words pushing against his lips, mouth turned into a slight pucker, brow creased. He had his ' _thinking hard'_ look on and Derek smiled around the bottle's mouth. Lowering it so that it was balanced gently on his knee, Derek gave Spencer a half-smile, one-sided and teasing.

 

“Out with it, kid,” he coaxed, amusement dancing in his tone.

 

The crease along Spencer's brow darkened.

 

“I thought—I didn't think—“ he stopped, blinking several times.

 

 _Ah._ And yet, despite instinctively knowing what Spencer was going to say, Derek didn't stir or shift or straighten. He simply stared at the other man, smile melting fractionally.

 

“Do you want me to?” he finished.

 

“No—“ he answered quickly, shaking his head. Spencer licked his lips, a tendon along his neck twitching. “I mean—not if you—not unless you want to—“

 

Even then, after the fact, Spencer's sentences were broken—jolted—and Derek found it more than a bit endearing. He could hear the uncertainty in his voice, see it in his posture, in everything from the way his shoulders sat to the way his feet rested against the floor, toes curled slightly down and into the carpet. He smiled at him, scoffing. There was nothing to be bashful or uncertain about. Not then. What had happened felt completely natural. It was a natural progression to their friendship, to the feelings that had—or so it seemed—been stewing in either man for some time—to their mutual attraction, both mental and physical. To the fact that it had been _Derek_ that had been bothering Spencer—that it had been _this_ , or so he assumed, that had been causing Spencer's uneven moods.

 

Setting his beer down on one of the provided coasters, Derek moved to his feet and walked around the coffee table, eyes still on Spencer's.

 

“I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy,” he reassured, letting his hand come up to rest on Spencer's bare hip. He felt the other man shiver, breath hitching. The corner of his mouth twitched and he gave Spencer a deliberate look, eyes slipping up and down his person before returning to his. “This look suits you,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood, to pass some of his confidence over and onto Spencer. “Although there's still room for improvement...”

 

There were several seconds of silence and then, Spencer's voice a breath, “And how's that?”

 

Derek chuckled, leaning in closely to ghost his lips against his as he answered, “Here—let me show you.”

 

Both hands shifted to settle against interwoven cotton, fingertips easily sliding between the towel and warm flesh as he leaned in, closing the distance—and his eyes—to press his lips against Spencer's. The kiss was a sharp contradiction to their last—it was slow and gentle, lips moving tenderly against other lips, tongues sure but searching, reaffirming, and then Spencer's hands were abandoning the towel so that his arms could weave around Derek's neck and draw him close. Derek smiled into the kiss, nipping gently at Spencer's bottom lip before pulling away.

 

He looked into hazel eyes with a slight smile, the towel falling from between their bodies and to the floor, near-silent, a whisper of fabric against fabric and little else.

 

“Much better,” he teased. Spencer managed a smile of his own, small but genuine, almost shy, and Derek's own widened.

 

Spencer's smile faltered and Derek could practically _hear_ those gears again.

 

“Don't leave,” he muttered. Those two words somehow managed to say so much more than the obvious and Derek found his own smile melting in reply, replaced with an intense conviction he hadn't known he felt—not entirely anyway--until that moment.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said simply, sliding an arm around Spencer's waist, hand settling against the small of his back. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me, pretty boy.”

 

Spencer searched his eyes, weighing the truth of the statement, and slowly another smile touched his lips, wider than before and completely genuine. Breathless, even, as he replied, “Good.”

 

 _Oh_ how Derek had missed that smile.

 

And then Spencer's lips were on his again, anchoring him into place, and Derek could feel his promise thrumming through his veins.

 

_I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy._


	2. To Be Used, Definitely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer Reid was running out of excuses—and restraint—neither of which settled well. Derek Morgan was rather—and increasingly—persistent.
> 
> He was considering a transfer.
> 
> And it was on one particularly cool, autumn evening—a Friday—that Spencer came to grips with his frustration and made the decision to file the appropriate paperwork the following Monday. Two hours and forty minutes later—after his decision—a knock sounded on his door, hard and loud, and Spencer found himself staring at nothing more than the root of his problems.
> 
> (Spencer's POV.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted as its own fanfiction in part of the series... but in an attempt to better organize things, I've decided to put both POV's of the same part in the same spot. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who originally commented on this part's POV: JJ (Wow. This is so good I am speechless. Derek and Spencer are unbelievably in character, the emotions are raw and real and gorgeously written. Even the smutty parts are achingly beautiful. Fantastic job. Just fantastic.), Inuhime (I sooo need more of this. Sequel... another chapter... something...), Caged_Bird ( Loved it! Are you still going to write a sequel? I'd really love one where they go all the way! Thanks for an awesome fanfic!), Aspie_Giraffe (seqquellll), Marauder_Girl (I need a sequel immediately! God you write them so nicely! Mhmmmm can't wait until the sequel thing :) ), lovescheese (Sequel = yes please! Loving this series :) ) and oliver (yes, sequel please!).

Spencer Reid was running out of excuses—and restraint—neither of which settled well.

 

He had tried everything. He had tried burying himself in his work—he had tried doubling his coffee intake—and then cutting it in half when the results left him jittery, almost flighty, sneaking near-constant looks at his co-workers as if his secret would be written plainly across his forehead for everyone to see. He had tried avoiding the resident chocolate God, Derek Morgan, altogether—not the easiest to do, mind you, when their cubicles were mere feet away and they were frequently trapped together in relatively small spaces. He had tried glaring at the other man, at distancing himself both emotionally and physically. He had tried shrugging off his touches and ignoring the near-constant teasing. He had tried staring blankly ahead, answering his concerns with silence or muttered excuses or half-truths.

 

Derek, however, was rather—and increasingly—persistent. He had made it his goal it seemed to torture Spencer, to touch and tease him when-ever and where-ever possible—even on cases, the line of professionalism he usually maintained blurring until it could barely be seen. He had made more than one police officer uncomfortable with his remarks and mock-affection and Spencer knew, he just _knew_ that the team was starting to take notice—that they were starting to realize that it was _Derek_ his moods revolved around, _Derek_ he closed up in front of, _Derek_ he avoided like the plague.

 

He was considering a transfer.

 

He _hated_ the idea. The BAU was his family. It was his _home,_ his _livelihood._ He couldn't just abandon that— _them—_ but he was becoming more and more distracted, more and more distant, and he knew he was a threat to not only their jobs but their lives. He knew that every time Derek was near him at a crime scene or Derek was staring down an armed unsub Spencer put everyone else at risk with his overabundance of emotion. It wasn't fair to anyone involved. _No,_ it wasn't, and so it was on one particularly cool, autumn evening—a Friday—that Spencer came to grips with his frustration and made the decision to file the appropriate paperwork the following Monday.

 

It was two hours and forty minutes later—after his decision—that a knock sounded on his door, hard and loud.

 

Running his hand through his hair, Spencer slipped from the couch and quietly approached the door, hesitating in front of it. The knock didn't repeat itself despite its previous urgency and so Spencer leaned forward, pressed his eye to the peep-hole only to find himself staring at nothing more than the root of his problems.

 

“Open up, Reid,” Derek called; his posture was tense and his jaw was set. He had come there on a mission it seemed. Spencer frowned and moved to pull away—but then Derek was looking at him—somehow— _really_ looking at him—and he found himself frozen to the spot, caught by those chocolate eyes and the determination that glinted in them. “Don't make me break down your door, pretty boy.”

 

He could ignore him. He could lock himself in his bedroom and ignore him. Maybe slip down the fire escape and act as if he had never been there to begin with. Or he could yell. He could scream at Derek until his voice was hoarse and Derek was startled into leaving as a neighbor called the police—or he could let him in and be brave, try a final time to get Derek to just... _stop_ and leave him alone. Three seconds passed and then he was unhooking the deadbolt, its noise somehow screeching—loud, too loud—and unlocking the door. Bravery it was, then. He pulled the door open partially, sandwiching himself between it and its frame, not quite meeting Derek's eyes as he greeted him with a flat: “What do you want?”

 

He was looking just above Derek's right ear, still refusing to meet his eyes as Derek's own dragged down his body. He could see the flit and flicker in his peripheral and then Derek was rolling his jaw, lips pinching against a frown.

 

“We need to talk,” he replied evenly, matching Spencer's flat tone with one of his own.

 

He was afraid he was going to say that.

 

What was there to talk about? The decision had already been made.

 

Spencer made a bit of a face, his nose scrunching, and kept his eyes away from Derek's.

 

“And this can't wait until Monday?” he asked, expression smoothing, turning blank. His eyes felt tight and he could almost feel Derek profiling him.

 

Derek scoffed, mouth screwing up and to the right.

 

“So you can avoid me again?” he countered. “Nice try, kid.”

 

Spencer looked at him then. He fixed him with a searching look, eyes running across the length of his features, and Derek's mouth seemed to smooth in reply, eyebrows raising expectantly. He could tell by the way he held himself that he was slightly intoxicated—his footing was different—and it didn't take a genius to put two and two together when they knew where he had been. He shook his head, the door still hugged close to his body.

 

“You're drunk, Morgan,” he surmised, lips turning into a slight frown. “Go home.”

 

A drunk Derek could be even more strong-willed than a sober one.

 

He only hoped that he could put the conversation to an end there—that Derek wouldn't, in fact, break down his door. He took a half-step back to close the door—but even an intoxicated Derek had the honed reflexes of an FBI agent, it seemed, as he compensated easily for the movement, jolting forward to slide his shoe between the door and its frame, the flat of his palm pressed against the door itself with his elbow bent slightly—his forearm was tense as he kept the door wedged open—and Spencer visibly startled at the action, hesitating to force it shut.

 

“I'm not going home, Reid. Not until we talk.” Derek gave him a pointed look, eyes locked on his. “I'll stay here all night if I need to,” he continued, conviction ringing through his tone, enunciated by a slight jerk of his head, a half-nod. “You know I will, kid—come on, just bite the bullet,” he encouraged, voice softening marginally. Spencer searched his eyes. He could try to force the door shut—but Derek was considerably stronger than he was and even if he _did_ manage, he would likely do so by hurting the other—and calling the police wasn't really an option. He would never do that to Derek anyway. Swallowing thickly, Spencer knew he only had one real choice. He would have to let Derek in and then—somehow—convince him to leave on his own accord.

 

He shifted, shoulders slumping in defeat, and let go of the door to step back. He wrapped his arms around his own abdomen as he moved and Derek pressed easily against the door, stepping forward to invite himself inside.

 

Spencer took another step back, careful to keep a bit of distance between the two of them, and he could see the way Derek regarded the motion, see the way his lips turned into a frown as he shut the door behind himself, his eyes still on him. Spencer tried squaring his shoulders, tried to look more confident in himself as he cut to the chase: “So. What is it?”

 

His voice betrayed him, sounding more strained than flat, and he swallowed hard.

 

Derek blew out a sharp breath through parted lips, chocolate colored eyes searching hazel.

 

 

“You tell me,” he replied evenly, eyebrows rising. “I know something’s up, kid. Something’s been bothering you—the whole team has noticed. We— _I_ —just want to help.”

 

He knew why Derek had said it. He was appealing to his conscious, to his alleged companionship with the team—Spencer’s expression hardened, a muscle twitching along his jaw, fingers tugging at the cotton of his own shirt, gripping firmly onto his own sides. He knew he was worrying everyone. He _knew_ it and it _wasn’t_ deliberate and—just—that was exactly the problem! Not only was _he_ distracted, _they_ were distracted. It would likely end with one of their lives hanging in the balance—a narrow scrape, maybe—and that was the best case scenario.

 

“I don’t need your help,” Spencer muttered. His voice was strained to his own ears and he could only imagine how the words sounded to Derek. Empty, surely. “Nothing’s wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head, almost snorting in disbelief.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, words a half-command, half-request, eyes softer than his tone. He was pleading for Spencer to let him in. The request was obvious in the lines of his brow; his eyebrows furrowed slightly at their center, angled down and then pinched up. His concern seemed genuine—Hell, it likely was—they _were_ friends, after all—and Spencer hated to push him away like this—but it was better for the both of them. “Have you been having head-aches again?”

 

“No,” he answered quickly—maybe a bit too quickly. He was careful to control his expression as he repeated two words, syllables forced and enunciated with a sharp roll of his lips, verbal barbed-wire: “Nothing’s—wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head again, the movement smaller then, miniscule.

 

There was a pause and Spencer felt himself tense. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he had finally managed to get through to him, wasn’t naïve enough to think that Derek was going to drop it. No, Derek was much more stubborn than that. Strong willed, rather.

 

“Are you using?” he asked abruptly, eyes steadfast on his.

 

Spencer made a choked noise, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

 

“Am I using?” he repeated, trying to force surprise into the words. It was really no surprise that Derek would go there. It hurt, yes, that Derek would doubt his will-power and withdrawal, but it was hardly surprising. Surely he felt he had exhausted all other avenues.

 

Derek frowned and Spencer knew—he _knew_ —that that had been the wrong response. It was too scripted. He had repeated the question—but not for the reasons Derek thought. He had repeated it because he had expected it. But their training—well, he knew how it would look from an outside perspective, how it would seem even to him if he were outside looking in. He grimaced, the line of his lips tightening.

 

“You heard me,” Derek countered.

 

Spencer swallowed, shaking his head. His eyes were pleading.

 

“You’re drunk,” he repeated. “Go home.”

 

The request, of course, worked as well that time as it had the first.

 

“Avoidance tactics won’t work on me, Reid,” Derek muttered, a bit of an edge to his voice. Something inside of Spencer bristled. He knew Derek was worried. He knew it. He could see it—but he just—he couldn’t. He couldn’t put himself out there to be rejected. Even if Derek would let him down easily—he just… couldn’t. This was one thing he didn’t know if he was strong enough to take, one rejection he knew, instinctively, had the very real possibility of breaking him because even if Derek was the kind man Spencer knew him to be, even if he promised nothing would change… everything would. Derek stepped forward, the question repeating itself, hanging in the air with forced pauses and stressed pronunciation, as if saying each word individually, without connection to the next or the last would somehow coax an answer from him. “Are—you—using?”

 

Tension flooded his limbs and he took a half-step back, shuffling to the side, an automatic reaction to having someone advance on him. Especially Derek and _especially_ like this—it was typical alpha male behavior. Derek seemed to realize the flaw in his approach and softened his voice as he continued, “Come on, man—talk to me. Let me help you—I know there are late night NA meetings—maybe we could find you an emergency sponsor—“

 

“No,” Spencer interrupted, taking another step away from Derek, becoming desperate.

 

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed at their center, tilting downward, and Spencer could feel as much as see his eyes searching his face.

 

“Please, Reid—let me help you.” It was unlike Derek to be a broken record to _this_ extent—while stubborn, he typically changed his tactics. He was typically more resourceful than this. Spencer knew it spoke volumes about how much he cared. He must have felt as if he had no other option. “What’s wrong?”

 

Considering Derek wasn’t changing his approach, maybe it was time Spencer changed his.

 

“ _Nothing’s_ wrong,” he repeated, arms dropping to his sides, palms turned toward Derek, fingers flexed out but relaxed. He was careful to make his body language open. Borderline welcoming. “I’m _not_ using and _nothing’s_ wrong—“ he sighed before Derek could object and added, “—I just… want space. Okay?”

 

There was a twitch of Derek's brow and he rolled his jaw; he saw right through it.

 

“I'm sorry, Reid,” he breathed. Spencer could hear the sincerity in his words and he knew—instinctively—that it was a general apology, that those few words brushed across so much without settling at the end—on this—and he swallowed hard. “But I can't. I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy... you haven't been eating.” The corner of Spencer's mouth twitched. He had too—just as often as before—well, nearly—but by himself. He would sneak into the break room when everyone was busy—eat half a doughnut when Derek was talking to Hotch and then decline the team's invitation to join them for lunch. He was eating—just not in front of anyone. Just not with Derek. “You look like Hell—when was the last time you managed more than an hour's sleep?—“ 112 hours, thirty nine minutes and twenty one seconds ago, he answered silently—easily, “—you're withdrawn—showing lack of interest in hobbies—in everything, honestly—“ mainly in Derek, mainly in their friendship, in the team and their commodore, Spencer corrected, “—and you're distracted, fidgety and tense. I _can't_ let this go.”

 

But he had to. Derek _had_ to. In a few days' time... well, he wouldn't have a choice. Spencer would be gone. And he knew that Derek would look for him, that Derek would still try—but it would be easier, he thought—he hoped—to break it off—their friendship—when he wasn't forced to see him every day. Hell, maybe he'd move. Maybe Hotch would be able to transfer him to another office, across country—somewhere Derek would be unable to follow.

 

The thought was as much of a relief as it was a proverbial dagger to the heart.

 

And he knew that within that mere second, his posture had closed off again, become tight—tense—and he felt his hands turn back and curl into half-fists at his sides, his chin lifting fractionally. He was leaving and that was that and there was nothing Derek could say or do. Nothing. And he needed to understand that.

 

“Too bad,” he snapped. “Now _go home._ ”

 

He poured everything he could into those few words—all of his desperation and anger and pain—and he hoped, he _begged_ for Derek to understand, to just _leave_ already and drop it—let things be—let _him_ be. In an attempt to enunciate his command, to give Derek no further option and force his hand, Spencer turned. He moved toward the kitchen—as far away from Derek as he could manage, then—but then there was a hand against his wrist, fingers wrapping around and tugging sharply to spin him. It happened quickly. He jerked around to tell Derek to let go but the words were severed, cut off to die in his throat as Derek quickly stepped forward to back him up—two steps—into the nearby wall, the movement fueled by surprise and desperation. Spencer startled, jerking his wrist from his grip, but it was too late—he was pinned against the wall, Derek's arms moving to either side of him, palms flat, body nearly covering his.

 

Typical alpha male behavior—he should have expected it, should have seen it—should have reacted differently, better—but it was too late and Derek's voice was nearly a growl, his face mere inches away from his as he repeated, “Are—you—using?”

 

Spencer's pulse had accelerated considerably, partially because of the remnants of panic racing through him and partially because of Derek's close proximity. He didn't do well with being cornered—had never done well with being cornered—and he tried to press against the memories that rushed over him, his mind eager to betray him it seemed; the motion became physical as he moved his hands to Derek's chest and tried to push him away. It was of no use. Derek's stature was considerably larger than his, considerably more imposing, and the other man had positioned himself expertly, his footing _just_ so, weight shifted to his knees and anchoring him in place. Spencer's hands dropped down and he tried to worm his way out from under Derek's right arm, lungs tight. He could smell Derek's cologne and aftershave and laundry soap—it was familiar, so familiar, and the scent helped chase away his memories and usher in desire—he squirmed more, desperate to get away, but Derek pressed in closer, pinning his body more forcibly between the wall and his own. He searched for an out, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. He needed an out, needed to get away—he was trying to remind himself that this was _Derek,_ that _Derek_ wouldn't hurt him—not like that—and that he was okay, that he was safe—and he smelled so _good_ but those thoughts were just as dangerous as the memories that sometimes plagued his nights.

 

“Don't make me ask again, kid,” Derek warned. It was an empty threat and he knew it— _God,_ he was so _close—_ Spencer's breath was sharp and stuttering, adrenaline lining his form, and he tried to shift again, tried to shrug him off and duck away before his body could betray him further. But as he shifted, his hips crashed into Derek's and he knew—he _knew_ that it was obvious then. _So_ fucking _obvious_ and the realization _burned._

 

His eyes reeled to Derek’s the moment it happened, panic clawing at him, taking place of every other emotion—he knew that it was just a feeling, just a matter of perception, but he could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat, his breath stuttering in sync with its interruption. Maybe Derek would shrug it off—laugh it off—it was a perfectly normal reaction, he supposed—libido varied from person to person—and maybe his perceived innocence would work in his favor—maybe Derek would laugh it off, dismiss it a byproduct of their close proximity. It was far more likely that Derek would laugh it off than be disgusted because this was _Derek_ and that was the sort of person he was and yet both possibilities seemed to hurt in equal measure. He swallowed hard. He needed to say something, offer some sort of explanation or apology or _something._ Ignoring it would be too suspicious. And so he managed a stuttered, “S-sorry—I—err, sorry—p-please just—“ _just don’t laugh, don’t be disgusted, don’t pull away—no, pull away—please, just give me space—please don’t hurt me._

  


He looked away. Spencer tensed, braced himself for the inevitable rejection. Even if it wasn’t deliberate, even if Derek didn’t see it as such—that was what it came down to. That was what it would be. Derek didn’t want this— _him_ —and he should consider himself blessed to have him in his life at all but it was hard, too hard to be optimistic when everything in his life had trained him to be everything but. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough to do this and yet he needed to be— _needed to be,_ needed to get through this— _just get through this—_ and then maybe he could convince Derek to leave and Monday he would put in his transfer papers. Maybe he could coax Hotch to pull a few favors and get it processed as quickly as possible and by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest, his embarrassment would be nothing but a memory, a picture-perfect example of why so many had labeled him a _freak._

  


Derek was staring. Still. He could feel it, see it in his peripheral. And Spencer could hear his heart in his ears, loud and accelerated and erratic and if it was physically possible for it to do so he was fairly certain it would leap from his chest. He rolled his lips together, pressing himself further back and against the wall to put as much distance between himself and Derek as he could. This was wrong, all wrong—this wasn’t supposed to happen like this—no, correction, this wasn’t supposed to happen at all. He opened his mouth to try fumbling through another apology, to try fumbling through _something_ but then Derek was leaning in, his body pressing firmly against his and he could feel his body react to the contact, erection jerking in his pants.

  


His breathing hitched, eyes reeling back and to his. Derek’s eyes were fixed resolutely on his and he was fairly certain the look was short-circuiting his brain because his lungs ached and he needed to breathe, to exhale and then inhale and repeat but he _couldn’t_ , especially then as Derek shifted yet again, dipping his head in and down, his lips brushing against the juncture of his jaw and cheek. That was—that was unexpected and no, _no,_ this couldn’t be happening and yet Derek was speaking, voice distant, as if under water: “I’m not through with you yet, pretty boy.”

  


Adrenaline. Adrenaline and surprise and hope and anticipation—he recognized the sensations for what they were and finally forced out a breath, only to inhale sharply again as Derek once more managed to do the unexpected by letting a hand fall from the wall and settle against his hip. He could feel Derek’s breath against his skin and a shiver rolled down his spine and _fuck,_ how was he supposed to react to that? He was staring off into space, eyes unfocused, and he was only half-aware of the noise that almost— _almost—_ escaped him.

  


This wasn’t—couldn’t be happening. No, this was wrong—all wrong—and surely Derek was going to pull away at any given moment, surely he was going to laugh at him and gawk and Spencer was reminded of that flag-pole on the football field and he closed his eyes, breath coming out in shaking pants. He tried telling himself that _that_ was wrong, too, that Derek wasn’t that sort of person. No, Derek was _good._ He was caring. He was compassionate and brave and smart and kind, _so kind,_ and never had Spencer witnessed him be needlessly cruel and yet, right then, his logic refused to connect. His mind was reeling, racing out of control, and then Derek was talking again and he needed to focus—needed to focus.

  


“Is this what you want?”

  


The question took longer than it perhaps should to connect. His brain was lagging, dredged with equal parts anxiety and hope and then Derek was tugging on his shirt, slipping it up until his fingertips were brushing against his skin. Deliberate, that. Completely deliberate. Clearly. His breathing stuttered—again—and he was fairly certain that he was going to begin hyperventilating if Derek kept this up.

  


As if to encourage his descent into madness, Derek shifted, pressing his hips more firmly against his and that’s when it became obvious, _so_ obvious, Derek’s own erection pressing against his thigh. He opened his eyes—when had he shut them? —and blinked, exhaling sharply, his answer chasing the breath and hooking on its end without his permission: “Yes.”

  


Surely that was obvious too—so obvious—and a small voice chided him, told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, that this was a trick—had to be a trick—but Derek was _so_ close and he could feel the way his body practically _vibrated_ against his, hummed with a surprising and unspoken arousal of its own, and he could feel his breath against his skin and he was shivering and trembling and _God,_ he smelled as delicious as he felt, cologne sweet and musky, colored by sweat, by _Derek,_ and the faint after-scent of alcohol. _Alcohol._ Of course—Derek was intoxicated. He was under the influence, no matter how minutely, and surely he didn’t mean this—couldn’t mean this—and, being sober, Spencer should put a stop to this. Should. But he couldn’t because Derek’s face was drawing closer to his and he could feel his lips against his skin, soft and sweeping, teasing, and he was kissing along the edge of his jaw and then down, over the slope of his chin and starts of his throat. His body seemed to be acting on its own accord, without conscious permission, because he was half-aware of his spinal column curving, body arching, lifting from the wall and pushing up and into his hips, into the firm touch against his waist. Derek continued kissing his throat and he really _shouldn’t_ be doing this—rather, he shouldn’t be letting _Derek_ do this, shouldn’t be taking advantage of his intoxication but—oh, _oh—_ another shiver skipped through him as Derek’s breath ghosted over a particularly sensitive spot and his name tore itself from his lips in a low, embarrassing whine: “Morgan—“

  


He didn't know what he was going to say. He knew he should say something, knew he _wanted_ to say something, but that word—his name—was all that he could manage. And then Derek's touch was lightening and panic cut through him, the fear that he was going to stop, that he really _had_ just been teasing him, but before it could settle Derek's fingertips were trailing along the waist-band of his pants and his lips were continuing their descent along his neck. Derek's body was steady against his and Spencer knew that he was completely and absolutely fucked. He was powerless to resist this—him—to turn him away, even if it was the _right_ thing to do, even if it would save him heart-break in the end. He had wanted Derek for _so_ long, had fallen for him _years_ ago and he had tried—God had he tried—to resist, to be strong and push his own feelings aside, to compartmentalize as he always had but there was something different about Derek, something that managed to corrupt all of his safe-guards.

  


“Yes?” Derek asked, his eyelashes and nose tickling his skin, lips teasing.

  


Spencer needed to reply. He needed to focus, needed to pull himself together—even if it was only to beg, to ask Derek to continue, to give him _this_ at least—completely—before he took it away. But he couldn't. He could only swallow and twitch, his hands jerking up, his body seeking more contact, seeking a way to communicate to him without words. One hand settled against Derek's bicep and the other against his clothed abdomen.

  


He drew in a deep breath and managed, “Please—“, the word broken and shallow, body betraying him again. He squirmed, pressing up and into him and tried again: “Please—“

  


Derek chuckled.

  


Before Spencer's panic could return, he muttered, “Oh, pretty boy, I'm sure you can do better than _that._ ”

  


A frustrated noise caught in the back of his throat and he drew in a sharp breath, tentatively shifting, letting the hand against Derek's bicep trace against dark skin, the fingers of his other hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt and tugging him closer. He needed this—needed Derek—and was pleased when the man managed to jolt forward to press more firmly against him. Their hips rutted together and Spencer felt a rush of satisfaction as Derek drew in a sharp breath of his own. He could feel the other man's arousal and he tried to focus on that, tried to focus on the idea that—right then, at least—Derek wanted this—wanted him. He tried to let that be enough, tried to encourage his own descent and focus on the moment.

  


He could feel Derek's smile as several hot, open mouthed kisses were pressed to his skin, a roller-coaster of shivers tracing his spinal column and drawing another choked noise—an almost whimper. Derek was absolutely _brilliant_ with his mouth, Spencer thought, and then Derek's hand was shifting, moving against his waist, slipping further down and between their bodies, fingertips breaths away from his erection. He was teasing him and _fuck,_ it was absolutely amazing— _he_ was absolutely amazing—his tongue against his skin, tracing over the line of a tendon, and Spencer's back arched, his head falling back and against the wall so that Derek had better access.

  


“That's better,” Derek muttered. His brain struggled to process the words, buried under a sea of sensation, of _please, more,_ of _need,_ and before he could manage so much as a noise of agreement Derek's hand was rewarding him, shifting so that it was pressed against his clothed erection. Spencer's lips parted, breathing loud in his ears, and he struggled to focus as arousal shot through his stomach in waves, liquid heat that singed his lungs. Derek was touching him—he was _touching_ him— _there—_ and _fuck_ that felt amazing and then Derek was lifting his head to look at him, his eyes visibly tracing over his features to settle on his own half-lidded gaze and it was too much— _too fucking much—_ and somehow not enough. Never enough.

  


He could feel Derek's fingers grip along the width of his erection, sliding up and then down, and Spencer bit at his bottom lip, unable to tear his eyes away from Derek's.

  


He could see the arousal simmering in his eyes and it was then that he decided to forget about later, to forget about what would happen afterward—at least for the time being—and embrace this for what it was. If Derek was willing to give this to him, what ever _this_ was, well then he was going to make every attempt to enjoy it. It was an impulsive decision and maybe he would regret it later—but that was later and he was determined not to let that possibility hamper the experience. And so Spencer's hand abruptly retreated from Derek's bicep, fluttering up to settle against the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard against his skin; he drew Derek forward, relieved when the dark-skinned man obliged, and leaned in himself, catching his lips with his own. He closed his eyes, focusing solely on the touch of Derek's lips against his, firm and eager, soft and plump and maybe a little bit chapped; he slotted his lips easily against his, drawing Derek's bottom lip into his mouth to lick and bite. He poured everything he could into the kiss. He tried to tell Derek how much this meant to him, tried to put into movement what he was too cowardly to put into words. Derek opened his mouth in reply and their tongues crashed together and it didn't matter if Derek understood—not really—not then—because at least he was still there, still willing to give Spencer this and that was something. It had to be something. There was the aftertaste of alcohol and mint and warmth, something indescribable he imagined to be purely Derek. Derek's hand moved back up to grip at his hip and, in turn, Spencer jerked his hips up and into Derek's and moaned, able to feel Derek's own erection digging in, pressing against his.

  


Derek's other hand moved from the wall and to Spencer's other hip; he was bracing himself fully against him and the low groan that escaped as Spencer rutted his hips into his again was everything Spencer wanted in that moment. Derek wanted this—wanted him—and _God_ the man was amazing. Spencer sucked gently on his tongue, desperate to memorize every angle and portion of his mouth, his nails digging into the nape of his neck, anchoring him close, with his other hand gripping his shirt tightly, holding him in place. Derek rolled his hips against his and the movement was deliberate, Spencer knew—he could tell—but it was another thought that didn't quite settle as he was swept up in the sensation of it, another moan falling from his lips. Derek bit at his bottom lip, drew it into his mouth and _sucked,_ smoothing the mark a moment later with his tongue and Spencer was really beginning to appreciate how talented he was with his mouth.

  


Their hips worked on finding a steady pace, fast, half-thought jerks turning into quick, deliberate rolls forward and up. The kiss, which had lasted long enough to leave them both breathless, came to its end; Spencer pressed his forehead against Derek's and both of their eyes opened to peer hungrily into the other's. The way Derek was looking at him—his stomach felt as if it were on fire, the heat moving up and flipping to touch his lungs.

  


“Please,” Spencer repeated, the word coming on its own accord; they were both nearly cross-eyed in their close proximity but Spencer could see a smile touching his friend's lips as he pushed his hips up and into his.

  


“Please what?” Derek asked, his eyes dark. His voice was rougher than usual, husky, and the sound itself sent another wave of warmth spiraling through him, causing his breath to skip before settling.

  


“Please—“ he tried again, licking his lips and swallowing, “touch me.”

  


He could feel the warmth touching his face, his cheeks turning scarlet—what if Derek refused? What if Derek really was just teasing him and—no. He turned those thoughts away before his mind could fully embrace them, and he was rewarded with a chuckle, Derek's smile widening as his hands shifted against Spencer's waistband and down to his belt. Spencer could have sworn his stomach flipped again, anticipation giving birth to a dozen of butterflies.

  


“You only needed to ask,” Derek muttered as he lifted his hips. He began unbuckling Spencer's belt, sliding the leather through its clasp without tearing his eyes away from Spencer's, and any doubt Spencer may have experienced just moments prior was stolen away, tucked into the furthest stretches of his subconscious. The way Derek was looking at him—his desire was written across every plane of his face, etched in every feature; his eyes were darker than usual, hungry and searching, and his lips were parted, breaths coming out in short bursts to dance across his skin. Spencer's hand shifted, his touch lightening, fingertips turning to gently stroke available skin.

  


Derek managed to unbutton and unzip Spencer's corduroys in a surprisingly fluid movement, his hands shifting so that he could tug on restricting fabric. He obediently lifted his hips for the other, letting his pants slide down and past his butt, pooling mid-thigh. The butterflies in his stomach were flapping incessantly, fanning the fire, and Spencer tried to remember how to breathe. The attempt was quickly abandoned as Derek's lips met his again.

  


He returned the kiss with fervor, nipping and sucking on his lips as Derek worked on freeing him from his briefs, calloused fingers brushing against bare skin and eliciting a completely knee-jerk reaction; his head fell back to hit the wall as he let out a sharp gasp, lips tearing from his as liquid lava shot straight through his chest. The smile that touched Derek's features at the motion was darker than usual, twisted and smoldering, and Spencer was careful to keep his eyes on his, breath a low groan as Derek raised his right hand and licked a stripe across his palm. The back of his head throbbed dully but it was easy to ignore—easier than it should be—anticipation blanketing his nerves and causing him to squirm, his chest heaving.

  


A mere moment later Derek wrapped his fingers around his cock.

  


Spencer's hips jolted up and into his touch, a moan tearing itself from his lips and even though Derek had barely touched him, Spencer had already decided that he was as talented with his hands as he was with his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to focus on anything more than Derek's hands against his bare skin, barely aware that he was trembling under the weight of the sensation. Derek gave his cock an experimental twist and tug and another desperate, grated moan tore itself from his larynx, his cock throbbing in his grip.

  


Spencer decided, quite abruptly, that he needed more. He needed to feel Derek's bare skin—he needed to feel the way his muscles moved as he shifted, to memorize each twitch and tremor of his body. He needed to trace the lines of his throat and shoulders with his tongue, to taste his skin and compare its texture to other bits and pieces—he needed to chase the drops of sweat and pleasure with his mouth as he made Derek come as undone as he already was. He needed more. He needed everything Derek was willing to give him and so the hand that had been wringing cotton moved abruptly as he opened his eyes. He released the fabric to drag his hand down to the hem of his tee and tug it sharply up to reveal his navel.

  


“Off—“ he muttered, lifting his head. “Please—take it off.”

  


It was less of a request than it was a demand, his need underlining every syllable, every consonant and vowel.

  


He was rewarded with Derek doing as commanded, retracting only to pull his shirt from his shoulders and head, to drop it carelessly to the floor, the whisper of cotton drowned under their broken breaths. Spencer wasted little time, his eyes devouring the lines of his body, hands moving to bare skin within an instant, pulling him close—his bare cock rutted against Derek's jeans and Derek _chuckled_ and Spencer wanted nothing more than to steal the amusement from his body and leave him gasping and desperate.

  


“Not so fast, kid,” Derek muttered, his hands moving to tug at his shirt in kind. Spencer nearly _whined_ but quickly complied, knowing it to be the easiest way to get what _he_ wanted, and lifted his arms obediently over his head so that Derek could strip him of restricting fabric and add it to his own on the floor. As soon as he was freed from his shirt, Spencer's hands slid around to map out the planes of Derek's back, fingertips tracing over each vertebrae as he pulled him close, their bare abdomens touching and sending an obvious jolt of pleasure through the both of them. It would be easy to memorize the feel of his body against his. An eidetic memory guaranteed that. And so he went about caressing each muscle, collecting the flow of movement with his fingertips and tucking it safely away, a small, quivering part of him afraid that this would be the only time he would be able to do this, the only time Derek would honor these whims and fulfill Spencer's own. Spencer looked at him, _really_ looked at him, aware that his affection radiated from each plane of his face—he needed to see Derek's reactions, needed to see the way he made him quiver, to memorize that in sync with the memories of movement.

  


Spencer slid his hands further down over heated skin and was rewarded with a jerk of Derek's hips into his own.

  


Derek lifted his hand to re-coat his palm, licking another stripe across his skin, and Spencer sucked in a greedy breath, the butterflies returning with a vengeance. He slid his hand between their bodies, easily finding his cock, and then Derek's fingers were wrapping around his width and palming at his shaft. Spencer moaned, unable to swallow it down, and leaned in to press his lips to Derek's throat. He needed to taste him—needed more.

  


Derek's head rolled back, tilting to give him better access, and Spencer greedily kissed and licked at his skin, tracing the muscles and tendons with his mouth. There was a sharp intake of breath and Spencer focused on _that_ spot, on making Derek repeat the noise, but it was hard to focus as the other gave his cock several slow, twisting jerks, teasing him until he was powerless to do anything more than buck into his touch. His mouth dropped down to latch onto his collarbone, Derek's skin barely stifling his moans, and he ran his tongue over each notch of skin covered bone.

  


Derek's hand quickened, his grip tightening, and Spencer was only half-aware that he was fucking his fist.

  


His lips tore themselves from Derek's skin and he pressed his forehead against the curve of his shoulder—his breathing came out in stuttering pants, the occasional moan underlying the noise, and _fuck,_ Derek was _definitely_ as talented with his hands as he was with his mouth. Derek shifted slightly and Spencer's eyes darted open—when had he closed them?—at the touch of his lips against his temple, sweet and affectionate, and he could swear his heart collapsed in on itself, tearing itself from ventricles and imploding. He moaned loudly, shifting a mere moment later to lift his face, to catch his lips with his. He kissed him—hard—and Derek kissed him back in equal measure, nipping at his bottom lip, and Spencer's eyes were closed again and God—was it possible? Was it possible that this was more for Derek too?

  


Spencer searched his mouth with his tongue, as if he would find his answer there, and Derek swirled his tongue around his, inviting him inside—Spencer moaned again, heart re-expanding, pushing hard against his lungs. He had never let himself entertain the idea that Derek could feel the same, that Derek cared about him more as a friend, and now that it had weaseled into his mind, it was impossibly intoxicating. He pulled away to look at him, his mouth wet, and tried to focus on the physical versus the near impossible.

  


“Can I—nnfhhh—“ his question melted into another moan, almost keening in nature, as Derek twisted his hand and palmed at the tip of his head, smearing his precome. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched into a slight smirk and he repeated the action—deliberately, of course—and Spencer's hips jerked forward in reply. He struggled to focus, to force the question through gritted teeth, and his face was almost a grimace as he managed, finally: “Can I—touch you?”

  


His hands slid down Derek's back to settle against his hips.

  


Derek licked his lips and Spencer almost smiled, knowing instinctively that Derek wanted that—him—able to feel his desire digging into his bare thigh. But then Derek was shaking his head and offering him a smile, soft and twisted, a strange sort of apology, and Spencer almost whimpered under the pain of the rejection, his answer cutting through him like lightning.

  


“I want to focus on _you,_ pretty boy,” Derek practically purred, leaning in to press their foreheads together. _He isn't rejecting me,_ Spencer thought deliriously—a thought fueled by the motion of his hand giving his cock a deliberate twist and pull, grip tightening. Spencer choked on another moan, struggling to focus, to search his eyes with his. Derek gave his cock another careful twist and added, voice husky, “I want you to come apart for me—make you focus on nothing more than my hand—shut that big brain of yours down. Think I can do that, pretty boy?”

  


Feeling disappointment was no longer an option—not when Derek was talking like _that,_ not when Derek was doing _that_ with his hand—and he made a noise in the back of his throat that was supposed to be an answer, supposed to be some string of letters that were more coherent than a simple _nnghhnfhh,_ but when he realized that it was anything but, he settled for nodding, his cock throbbing under Derek's touch.

  


The fire in his stomach had roared to life again, stronger than before, and he was breathing in smoke as his thighs tingled and his cock tightened. He was getting close, nearing that edge, and Derek licked his lips, searching Spencer's eyes before slowing the movements of his hand.

  


Spencer nearly whined, the noise interrupted by a single question: “Are you using?”

  


It felt like a whip against his bare chest, cold leather slashing through him and slicing along his ribs. It was a punch to his heart—he had never known Derek to be so twisted and yet in that moment his fears laughed at him, reared up on their hind-legs and growled, demanded his full attention in a way that was heart-breaking and panic-inducing and _no_ , he couldn't focus on that. Not then. He needed to focus, needed to embrace the moment and keep it close to his heart. He wouldn't let his fear touch it—couldn't if he wanted to remain upright and functioning and some semblance of whole when Derek was done with him.

  


He looked at him, his brow furrowing, expression darkening. He needed this. He needed Derek and if this was the only way he was going to get it—if this was his sacrifice—then so be it. He didn't pull away. He didn't push at him or tell him to stop. No, instead he managed: “No—no—“ it was a mere mutter, the words hesitant, and Derek was still stroking his cock, more lightly then, touch more teasing than before. He was poking and prodding at the fire in his stomach, stoking the flames, and Spencer's hips jerked forward. Derek's eyes were still on his but he could no longer read them and maybe, he realized, it was because of what he feared he'd find.

  


“So if I—“ Derek quickened his pace a bit more, letting his hand squeeze and pull harder, touch becoming more firm, “searched this apartment—you'd be clean?” The question barely had time to register before Derek was leaning in, teasing him further by pressing his lips briefly against his, his tongue brushing across the seams of his mouth before he pulled away, coaxing, “Come on, pretty boy—I promise I'll reward your honesty.”

  


Spencer tried to chase the kiss with his own but Derek remained firm, leaning just out of reach, and in frustration Spencer's hands skirted up his back, fingernails practically digging into his skin. Derek let out an almost pained noise and guilt flared in his stomach—but his touch remained hard, a feeble attempt at a punishment.

  


“Come on,” Derek repeated, shaking his head and pulling at his cock. Spencer whimpered, leaning back so that his head was resting against the wall again; his touch still didn't let up.

  


If this was his sacrifice—well, so be it. He could only trust that the pain would be worth it, that he would be able to survive the inevitable heart-break that came afterward.

  


“No—I—“ he moaned as Derek's hand twisted around him, “I haven't been—nnfhhh—“ Derek repeated an earlier gesture, palming at the head of his cock before letting his fingers slide down and twist, and Spencer struggled to focus, to make the needed words form across his tongue, “but—m'air conditioner... past the filter—two bottles—been there for—ahh, two—two months—six days—twenty seven minutes and—“

  


“Then what's been bothering you?” Derek interrupted. Spencer knew that it was the moment of truth—that _this_ was the sacrifice—because if it hadn't been obvious before, if Derek had somehow managed to overlook the clues and misread _everything,_ well... it would be obvious then. Desperately and pathetically obvious.

  


Derek let the pace of his hand quicken and steady out, a glimpse of his promised reward, and Spencer swallowed hard, several lines forming across his forehead as he made that leap, his answer coming out in a gasp: “You.”

  


The movement of his arm stopped and stuttered. Spencer fell flat, lungs robbed of their air, and he tried to encourage Derek with a deliberate jerk of his hips. He needed this—needed his sacrifice to be rewarded, if only for the moment. And then when it was over—when Derek realized his mistake—Spencer swallowed down a choked noise, trying to focus on the pleasure of Derek's touch as he was spurred back into action, his brow furrowed.

  


“Me?”

  


“You—“ he confirmed, his eyes on his, wide and searching. _Please don't stop. Please—_ he could see Derek thinking, dissecting, and no— _no—_ he couldn't let him think about it, couldn't let him come to that conclusion because when he did—when he did, surely this would stop. And so he said, desperately, “—please—Morgan— _Derek—_ need this—“ _you, “_ —please—don't... don't stop—not yet—“ _not yet._

  


Derek's hand, which had slowed again, quickened at the end of his broken request, coaxing Spencer back to that edge. Spencer let out a grateful noise, relief rushing through him, chasing away the pain for the time being, and then Derek's lips were trailing over the edge of his jaw before ghosting up and finding his ear. Derek was still there—Derek was still there and at least he would have this—at least he would have this—and that had to be something. It _had_ to be. He would make it be if he had to. Derek's breath ghosted over sensitive flesh, licking at the bottom of his earlobe before taking it gently into his mouth, nipping and licking before releasing it with a chuckle. Spencer nearly whimpered.

  


“Mmm, pretty boy—I have no plans of stopping—“ he shifted to look at Spencer again, to catch his eyes with his, and the desire Spencer saw there hurt in ways it shouldn't, “—fuck. You're so gorgeous like this.”

  


Spencer closed his eyes, unable to press fully against the guilt and then—oh— _oh—_ he was _right_ there, right _fucking_ there and his mind was a white-wash of pleasure, of _please_ and _more_ as Derek's hand tightened around his cock. “Ahh—please—“

  


“Close?”

  


His voice was raw and husky and Spencer managed to nod, eyes opening to peer into his, half-lidded and dark, searching.

  


The corner of Derek's mouth twitched.

  


“Not quite yet—“

  


Spencer _did_ whimper then, his arousal intensifying—how was that even possible?—his body jerking forward, cock throbbing pitifully in his hand. Derek pulled and twisted and the fire that had slowed to a smolder in his stomach flared to life, cutting through him and eliciting another whimper, nails scratching down Derek's back. And then Derek was offering him reprieve, giving him an escape, an out from the sensations wracking his frame by coaxing gently: “There we go—come on, pretty boy. Come on, Reid—let go. Come for me—come on, Spencer—“

  


Spencer came with a shout, tumbling over that edge in a rush, his body jerking unceremoniously beneath his as warmth coated Derek's hand. His vision brightened and his temples throbbed, heat and lightning and pleasure coursing through his veins, shooting through him in waves that made his knees weak and his toes clench and his body tremble. He jerked against the wall, his hips stuttering under Derek's touch—he was still stroking him, milking the remnants of his orgasm from him and _God_ he was sensitive, so sensitive and it almost _tickled—_ he whimpered loudly, the touch to Derek's back lifting, lightening in pressure as he tried to squirm away.

  


Derek chuckled and slowed his movements; he leaned in and kissed Spencer and Spencer _knew_ that it was a goodbye of sorts—he could feel the pity in the tentative touch of his lips to his and quickly deepened the kiss, needing to take what ever Derek was willing to give him, be it in pity or not. He licked and nipped at Derek's bottom lip before delving his tongue into his mouth, letting it run along the edge of his teeth and then swirl against his. Surprisingly, Derek countered his passion with a fervor of his own, and Spencer's heart was loud in his ears, feeling very much like a lump in his throat.

  


He pulled away, unable to meet Derek's eyes with his own as he managed, flatly, “I should... I should clean up.”

 

 

Spencer shifted, drawing himself away from the other man. He pressed his hands against his chest to guide him back and Derek did so without further prompting. Already the swirl of self-hate had begun, memories turning darker—self-deprecating and abusive, inner turmoil taking on the voices of bullies past. He needed an out. He knew he would buckle under their weight if Derek added his voice to his collection, knew he would give into his own doubts and fears. Spencer hurried to pull up his underwear and pants. He didn't bother to buckle his own belt or grab his shirt, instead brushing past Derek and toward the bathroom, unable to meet his eyes as he fled.

 

 

He shut the door as soon as he was in the reprieve of the bathroom, its click loud in the silence of his apartment, and practically deflated once out of sight.

 

 

He was stupid—so stupid—to think that Derek would want him like _that,_ to think that that had been anything more than a good time or a way to manipulate him. Derek was different than everybody else, yes—he had always known that—but now he was uncertain if that was _good_ or _bad._

  


*****

 

  
He took a long, hot shower—turned the water up until its temperature nearly burned him and forced him to become numb. And then he turned it up a bit higher. He scrubbed his body and washed his hair and then, moments before he stepped out, he let the water temperature plummet, shocking him into another form of numbness he sometimes used to combat his cravings. He tried desperately to think of each movement—to focus on his footwork as he climbed out of the shower—to focus on how his fingers curled around his towel as he shook out his hair and patted at red skin.

 

 

He had never heard the door open and shut but he knew it had—knew Derek had left and—no. He focused instead on wrapping the plush, terry-cloth towel around his waist. He focused instead on lifting his hand and gripping the bathroom's door knob, on turning it and stepping back to pull the door open, on stepping out and into his apartment on—on blinking sheepishly at Derek, who was sitting calmly on his couch with a beer in hand as if nothing had happened.

 

 

It was a marvel what his mind chose to focus on next—the offered beer, its body lifting up and tilting toward him. He only had beer in his house because of Derek, because he had long ago started stocking his fridge with a few of his friend's favorites and, it seemed, never stopped. He blinked and somehow managed to shake his head, his eyes on his.

 

 

Derek was still there. Derek hadn't left.

 

 

Why?

 

Derek shrugged, lifting the bottle to take a long pull of its contents, and Spencer took two hesitant steps forward, his eyes still carefully trained on the other man. His mouth was turned into a slight pucker, his brow creased, and he was only barely aware of the smile gracing Derek's lips around the bottle's mouth. He lowered it so that it was balanced gently on his knee; Derek gave Spencer a half-smile, one-sided and teasing. Familiar.

 

“Out with it, kid,” he coaxed, amusement dancing in his tone.

 

Spencer swallowed. Here Derek was, acting as if nothing had happened—acting as if he wasn't disgusted by Spencer—as if the idea of this—of them—didn't bother him—as if he hadn't just manipulated him. The crease along Spencer's brow darkened and he really didn't know if Derek was a better or worse person for that—for his caviler attitude.

 

“I thought—I didn't think—“ he stopped, blinking several times. _I thought you'd be gone. I didn't think you would be here._

 

Derek simply stared in reply, which was even more maddening of an action then than before, his smile melting fractionally.

 

“Do you want me to?” he finished.

 

“No—“ Spencer answered quickly, shaking his head. Maybe a bit too quickly—even if Derek was staying because it didn't bother him... well, that could change. Especially if Spencer showed how desperate he was for his company, for his approval or friendship. “I mean—not if you—not unless you want to—“ he stopped, knowing he wasn't helping his cause, and waited for Derek to stand up and leave.

 

He noticed, absently, that their shirts were still in a pile by the wall.

 

He licked his lips. Derek looked completely relaxed, his body curved and tucked into his sofa, shoulders drawn down into their natural curve. A smile touched his lips and he scoffed, causing Spencer's eyes to narrow fractionally as he attempted to dissect the noise, but before he could succeed, Derek was setting his beer down on one of his coasters and moving to his feet to walk around the coffee table, his eyes on his.

 

“I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy,” he reassured, his hand coming up to rest against his bare hip. His touch was gentle—warm—grounding. He shivered under its weight, the gooseflesh from his shower returning with a vengeance, and was too aware of his own breath hitching. Derek was touching him—he still _wanted_ to touch him—and then his eyes were dragging—deliberately—over his person before returning to his. “This look suits you,” he teased. He was trying to lighten the mood—he was trying to show Spencer that things hadn't changed—not really—and Spencer's heart felt as if it were doing somersaults at the idea. “Although there's still room for improvement...”

 

 

Spencer could feel the color returning to his skin, his face heating under the look Derek was giving him. The idea that Derek still wanted him—that this had somehow been a big misunderstanding—it was confusing and overwhelming and more than a bit wonderful. He swallowed, finally managing, voice a breath, “And how's that?”

 

 

Derek chuckled, leaning in closely to ghost his lips against his and rob him of his breath as he answered, “Here—let me show you.”

 

 

Both hands shifted to settle against interwoven cotton, fingertips easily sliding between the towel and warm flesh as he leaned in, closing the distance—and his eyes—to press his lips against Spencer's. Spencer's heart was loud in his ears as his own eyes shut; he let Derek guide the kiss, let Derek show him what he wanted—and it was a sharp contradiction to their last. It was slow and gentle, lips moving tenderly against his, tongue sure but searching, reaffirming, and Spencer gladly returned the gestures with his own. His hands abandoned his towel so that his arms could weave around Derek's neck and draw him close, their bare abdomens bumping. He could feel Derek smiling into the kiss, nipping gently at Spencer's bottom lip before pulling away.

 

 

When Spencer opened his eyes to meet Derek's, his heart felt like it could very much implode again. It was simple perception, he knew, but the small smile that touched Derek's lips as his towel fell from between their bodies and to the floor, near-silent, made his mouth dry and his stomach quiver.

 

 

“Much better,” he teased.

 

Spencer managed a smile of his own, small but genuine—shy—and Derek's widened in reply. His smile faltered a moment later. He needed to be sure—he needed to clear up what ever miscommunication lingered—he needed to know that _Derek_ knew—that Derek was okay with... what ever this was.

 

Before Derek could prompt him into talking, Spencer muttered: “Don't leave.”

 

 

His lungs were tight as Derek's smile melted in reply.

 

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said simply, sliding an arm around Spencer's waist, his hand settling against the small of his bare back. He could feel Derek's jeans against his bare skin and he exhaled sharply. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me, pretty boy.”

 

Spencer searched his eyes, weighing the truth of the statement—he could hear the conviction in his tone, could see it shining in the slight quirk of either eyebrow and the bare curve of his lips. The butterflies in his stomach seemed to conjure themselves from thin air and then he was smiling again, breathless, as he replied, “Good.”

 

And then Spencer's lips were on Derek's again, anchoring him into place, and he could feel Derek's promise chasing the fears from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who kudos'd the original fanfic of Spencer's POV, too! Your encouragement is definitely appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and may or may not be planning a companion story from Reid's POV. Maybe even a fluffy/smutty sequel after that... feedback of any sort will likely feed my muse. Constructive criticism is especially appreciated as this is my first attempt at Moreid and is an unbeta'd attempt at that.
> 
> A special thanks to Mary (marian93/irethinglorion93) for listening to my late-night rambles and feeding my muse with her pain and fangirling.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: To better organize my works, I've combined Spencer and Derek's POV into a single fic, duel-chaptered... this first chapter is Derek's POV. The second chapter is Spencer's POV. Thank you to everyone who commented on the original story. I was hesitant to rearrange these because of such lovely things but I ended up screen-capping them for later encouragement. :)


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